


bad dream

by batznbonez



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Nightmare, Prisonfic, thestabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-18 02:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21503569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batznbonez/pseuds/batznbonez
Summary: Mickey has a bad dream while Ian is in solitary.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 7
Kudos: 91





	bad dream

Mickey is laying on his poor excuse of a mattress, staring up at the top bunk. His arms are folded lightly across his abdomen, his tattooed fingers tapping lightly on his stomach. It’s quiet in the cell. The only things he hears are Enzo’s faint snores through the wall and his own breathing. Ian went into solitary earlier that day, a shit-eating grin on his face as he was led through the doors to where he would be staying for a week. Which means Mickey has the cell to himself for a week. In a way, he’s glad. No mayonnaise odor. No flossing noises or mouth noises in general. No page turning, no loud sniffles, no passive aggressive rumbles directed at him from across the room for god knows what. He only feels bad because HE couldn’t have the last word. Or the say in who goes where. Ian choosing, and getting, to go to solitary instead of him—to get away from him, to leave him, to have the upper hand—it all just brings up so much shit. Isn’t solitary supposed to be shitty? Isn’t no one supposed to WANT to go there? Why did the idiot even suggest it? Was he that bad? That solitary confinement seemed so much better? Why couldn’t Ian ever stay through the hard shit? Mickey knew that they had been arguing. It happened every day, for hours on end. There was a constant tension. But most every night, or every morning, they always came back to each other. They always had their quiet moments. Their soft moments. They could argue nonstop for an entire day, but it never leaked into the night. That was their time. And to Mickey, it was fine. He was used to arguments—it was a normal part of his entire life. It was more comforting, to him, to have argued all day and still want to be together, to touch, to kiss, to hold. It meant so much more than being cutesy all damn day. Being able to say how he feels, to be allowed to be angry or irritated or defensive, and to have Ian be forced to just _listen_ and give it right back to him rather than running away or leaving him—it was healing those parts of him, those trampled parts. It felt like release. Of his anger, of his hurt, of the past. And at the end of the day, when they were wrapped around each other, kissing softly and rubbing each other’s backs or hair or legs, he felt safe. He felt like himself. He felt equal. Even on nights they didn’t sleep in the same bed, when they’ve had almost _too_ much of each other, Ian would still dangle his arm over the side of his bed until Mickey held his hand. They’d play with each other’s fingers, stroking lightly, twining and untwining. Mickey only dropping his hand down if Ian’s fingers went still and his breathing evened out. He’d roll over and fall asleep, knowing they were okay. They would be okay.

Or so he thought.

Mickey knew that their recent arguing has been affecting Ian more than usual. How sometimes, instead of yelling back at him, he’d just sigh or climb onto his bed and read until lunch or lights out. How he got quiet after being called annoying. It didn’t happen often, maybe once or twice before he went back to retaliating; so, Mickey wasn’t overly worried. They still laid with each other, maybe less than usual, but not never. Even though they fell asleep in different beds occasionally, Ian had been getting clingier than usual. He would fall asleep in his own bed, which confused Mickey slightly, but then climb down and slip in behind him in the middle of the night. Sometimes, he would rub his nose into Mickey’s neck until he woke up, climbing over him to be in between Mickey and the wall. He would lift Mickey’s arm from the pillow and put it over his own head or shoulders and hold it to himself until he fell asleep. He never said anything, maybe a whispered “Love you, Mick”, which made Mickey smile and tighten his arm around the redhead. He thought they were fine. Now, they’re lying in separate cells, alone.

Mickey falls asleep, anxious, to the tapping of his own fingers as he tries not to think of what Ian is doing.

_He’s back in their cell, throwing books and papers trying to look for the shiv. Ian must have hidden it awhile back when Mickey was threatening a few new inmates that were giving them dirty looks. He remembers Ian’s worried look, trying to calm Mickey down claiming they didn’t need any more trouble. Look at them now, he thinks. All precaution out the window. They’re arguing still, throwing insults back and forth before Ian pulls their shiv from a book. He hears something rattle in the vent and sees the dull tip of Enzo’s shiv peeking through, grabbing it and hiding it in his hand, silently thanking their neighbor for being on his side. Ian rushes to the door, Mickey close behind before they’re shoulder to shoulder. There’s no lock down. Mickey doesn’t question it. They run through the halls, trying to be discrete as they race to the infirmary. They push each other into the walls, throwing bitten out insults and grabbing each other’s suits and arms, trying to get ahead. Once in the infirmary, Mickey follows Ian towards Chester’s bed and lets loose. He’s gonna win. He’s going to solitary, HE’S going to leave Ian, its going to be HIS choice. If separation is what Ian wants, it’s what he’ll fucking get. He raises his hand, lowering it over and over and over. He hears Ian’s panicked voice, different than before, yelling desperately._

_“Mick, stop!” Over and over. He can’t stop, he won’t be left again, damnit. He won’t. He’s leaving. HIM. Ian may have stabbed Chester first, but Mickey is going to do the most damage and then they’ll put him away._

_“Mickey stop it!! Stop!” His voice is different, why is he freaking out? This was his idea! He doesn’t care if Chester’s hurt. This was his plan. Still. That voice. Ian sounds scared. He sounds hurt. Mickey stops his hand, unscrunches his face and looks._

_He drops his shiv in shock._

_It’s not Chester in the hospital bed, it’s Ian._

_He just stabbed Ian._

_How? How did he get here? Where is Chester?_

_Mickey can’t think. His mind is white with panic and shock. He bunches up the sheets of the hospital bed, holding them to Ian’s body and watching them turn red. They’re turning red so quickly. He can’t stop it. He can’t breathe. His chest feels tight. Ian is panting and crying and looking at him with wide, sad eyes and Mickey never wants to see this ever again. He wants this to be over. He wants him to be okay, he wants them to be back in their cell yelling at each other, or better yet, hugging or just laying—anything but this. He grabs Ian’s hand and squeezes; he’s sweating and crying and apologizing over and over. He just wants to fix this. He’s screaming for help, please can someone help him, someone come get him NOW. He’s yelling Ian’s name, patting his cheek, trying to keep him awake, he hears pounding down the hall, and he hopes help is on the way. No one is there. What the fuck is that pounding?_

Mickey wakes up with a jolt. His white tank is soaked in sweat and there’s a pounding on the wall. He tries to catch his breath, looking around the room, unable to see anything in the darkness. The pounding stops and Mickey can hear Enzo through the wall as he climbs back into his bunk with a ‘fucking finally’.

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey says to Enzo and to himself, still out of breath. He feels hot tears well up in his eyes and his shoulders start to shake. He knows the dream was dumb, he knows it wasn’t real. But…He feels far more alone than he thought he would. And far more guilty than he probably should be. Fuck. A few tears leak, he shakes them away and pinches the bridge of his nose. He knows Ian wants them to be okay, but why is it seemingly only on him? He knows he could stand to be a bit cleaner when it comes to his area. A bit less snarky. More willing to talk. But after years of doing all of the talking and chasing and pleasing, he just wants to be his self. He wants to be chased and he can’t fucking change for anyone anymore. He knows he still has hurt inside him and it just comes out. It will take a while for things to be better. It doesn’t mean he wants Ian to hurt. He never fucking wants to see Ian hurt. Ever. Ever. He needs more time. And he needs more proof that this is solid. So far, this separation is not giving him the impression of solid. Mickey rubs his eyes as they adjust slightly in the dark, he can make out the hallway and sees a guard walk passed his door. Rounds. He figures he has a few more hours before the lights come back on for good. He knows he won’t be sleeping any more tonight, so he settles in close to the wall and sighs. Six more nights. He can do six more nights.

*

The next day, Mickey tries to carry on like normal. He’s tired and anxious, still, from his nightmare, but he welcomes the distractions that the day brings. Laundry for a few hours, rec time, listening to other inmates’ arguing, picking at each of his meals and giving half-hearted responses to anyone trying to engage him. He makes sure to work harder than normal, hoping to tire himself out before heading back to his cell for the night. He, of course, hears no word on Ian or how he’s doing. He has no clue how he would know, it’s called solitary for a reason—although, if he really _needed_ to get in some form of contact, he could find a way. But he won’t. Because it has only been a day. Barely 24 hours. And he’ll be damned if he’s going to make contact first.

He hears a few jokes and sneers from the inmates on their floor, he knows they’re directed at him and his situation. Something about trouble in paradise after trouble in paradise. This place is definitely not paradise, it never was and never could be, but this time around has been something close to it. For one, he’s not alone this time. His version of paradise has always included four things: the beach, a shit ton of alcohol, a bright sun, and his favorite person in the world, who also happens to be the most _annoying_ and _selfish_ person in the world, but that is neither here nor there. He still has him. He wouldn’t have anyone else, no matter how great they were, or how big their eyes were or their smile or their muscles or their dick—and fuck, he misses that dick. He’s angry at Ian all over again. He stands up harshly and marches his way out of the common room, pushing passed groups of buffed up inmates, heading up the stairs and going to his cell, mostly unnoticed, though he can feel the eyes of inmates and the guard posted down the hall. Maybe he’d jack off tonight, take some of the edge off and help him sleep. Glancing up at the empty bunk above his, and the windows surrounding him, he decides against it. For now, anyways. Instead, he grabs his notebook and his pen, clicking a few times for good measure, and draws and draws until the noises of the prison fade out with the lights.

*

The following few days all blend together in an annoying grey line. Laundry, meals, rec, bullshit. He’s grateful that he hasn’t had another nightmare, though. His dreams, although he can vaguely remember them, have been pleasant. Ian is in most of them, making jokes and giving him eyes from wherever he is. So far, he just wakes up horny. Then horny turns angry, and anger fades into sadness as he gets ready for the day alone. He only has two more days of this, he can do two more days.

Breakfast is tolerable, he drains his black coffee and listens to the conversation around him, making an effort to engage in some of it before it all just gets annoying and he recedes back into silence. Even when Ian is here, Mickey is no chatter box. It’s different when someone is there that you don’t have to speak to out loud, who you can give a look and they’d know what it meant and laugh. Most times they just glance at each other either from across the room or right beside each other, maybe pinch or kick each other under the table if they were sitting at the same one. He misses that. He misses him. He wonders how his stay in solitary has been and if he misses Mickey as much as Mickey is missing him. His thoughts follow him all throughout the day, overriding the sounds of the machines in the laundry room, overlapping the guards as they do head counts and lockouts, and every other fucking thing he hears during the day. He’s quietly scared for Ian. Ian would have had a better time out of solitary than Mickey, he knows that for sure. He’s more social, he doesn’t need to be left alone with his thoughts for days on end. What is he thinking about? Is he going crazy by himself? Does he have anything to do? Does he regret doing this? Is he okay? Are they giving him his medicine? Is he taking it? Is he eating? Has he been able to sleep? Does he wake up during the night? Did he, too, have a godawful nightmare and wake up to no one? Or is he just fine, happy to be away from Mickey and his mess and clutter and presence? Mickey wants him happy, but fuck, if it wouldn’t hurt him like hell if he didn’t have a bad week without Mickey. He needs to know: Does he miss him? Does he miss him?

Does he miss him?

He falls asleep, curled on his side towards the wall. Two more days.

*

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thank you for reading, it isn't quite finished but its something lol


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